


Lost in Transit

by Oceanbreeze7



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: "Look Yassen you need to do your child support duties", "Okay how about I send you a ham leg", Alex Rider Needs a Hug, But ends sad, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Gen, Ian Rider gets rights, Slice of Life, not quite a sugar daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanbreeze7/pseuds/Oceanbreeze7
Summary: "Alex, who keeps sending you all this shite?"“Oh, well, it’s a weird story,” Alex said, apologizing in advance, “so I have...well. I have this...not quite an uncle, and not like a godfather since Ian was angry at that, but in a weird standoff way. But he lives in Australia, and we both know Ian wouldn’t go anywhere near someone he hated, but I’ve been to all the cities so only the Outback is left.”“But you said he isn’t an uncle-.”"He isn't! Okay so, ignore the bastard in the actual Outback. I have thisotherone, and apparently he has a bigger grudge match with my not-godfather out in the Outback, so to piss off that bloke more, I call the other one Outback-Uncle.”“I would die for Outback-Uncle,” Tom said.
Relationships: Alex Rider & Ian Rider, Ian Rider & John Rider, Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich & Ian Rider
Comments: 26
Kudos: 232





	Lost in Transit

**Author's Note:**

> This came about in a conversation with some people, and I wanted to elaborate on it because I really liked the idea.  
> It came out really sweet and melancholy.

Alex always thought every family had the odd cousin or uncle or grandparent. He knew some families were a bit closer, called a bit more- but everyone had that one person who they met maybe twice, who sent a cheap card with a cheque every birthday or Christmas.

Ian was Alex’s uncle, and yes it wasn’t anything  _ close  _ to filling that gaping hurt that reared its head every Father’s day, or every  _ bring-your-parents-to-school  _ day growing up. Alex never expected Ian to show up to his football matches, but on occasion he did. Sometimes Ian would be home early and sneak inside to surprise Alex after school. Sometimes Ian pulled Alex for a long weekend and they took off to France or Italy for a short holiday that always ended with laughter.

Alex loved Ian, but he wasn’t his dad. Ian was his dad’s brother- and there was some tension in that because Jack always hushed Alex whenever Ian got that nostalgic sad look on his face. There weren’t any pictures of his dad ( _ John,  _ Alex knew at least), or his mum or wedding pictures in photo albums. It hurt, but Ian was hurting too so Alex guessed it was fine.

“It’s just annoying,” Tom muttered, kicking a broken bit of plastic that hadn’t made it into the nearest rubbish bin, “like, don’t get me wrong, mate. I love my family, but my aunt? Total bitch.”

“Maybe she had a bad day?”

“Nah, always been like that,” Tom huffed, bumping his shoulder gently into Alex’s as they walked towards the football field. “What about you? Any weird blokes in your family? I can’t be complaining against Aunt Maris’ the whole walk!”

Alex thought hard. Tom was his best friend, they knew everything about each other and at this point, there was no reason to  _ not  _ talk about his family.

“Well,” Alex said slowly, “I mean, you’ve met Ian. He’s my dad’s brother, younger I think?”

“Ian being the baby of the family,” Tom mused, trying not to laugh although a broad grin did split his face. “Imagine that. What about your granddad?”

“Don’t know,” Alex said with a shrug. “I think he must have passed early, he never mentions him much. But he doesn’t like talking about my dad at all so who knows.”

“Huh,” Tom said. They walked a little longer, both thinking contemplatively on the situation. “What about your mum’s side?”

“My mum? Uh, I think her name was...it started with a ‘H’...”

“Helga?” Tom guessed teasingly, “Hayley? Heather? Haymitch!”

“My mother was  _ not  _ named Haymitch,” Alex scoffed, failing to hide his delight. “That’s a horrible name!”

“Haymitch is a perfectly good name!” Tom argued with a giggle. “Wasn’t it Helen? I think I was over for dinner once? Like, years ago and it was mentioned?”

“That’s it!” Alex confirmed with a joyous snap of his right hand, “Helen! I don’t know much about her, I mean we learned about genetics in class and I can figure some of it out since Ian doesn’t have light hair.”

“Ah, good old biology class to learn you were adopted,” Tom agreed with a wry grin, “that poor kid. Well! Your mum’s gotta have some sort of family, yeah?”

Alex said, “well, yeah? I mean I have that Outback-Uncle, I thought he was on that side.”

Tom blinked quickly, then lifted both arms to grab Alex and stop their walk. “Wait, rewind. An  _ Outback-Uncle?  _ What the hell does  _ that  _ mean?”

“Oh, well, it’s a weird story,” Alex said, apologizing in advance, “so I have...well. I have this...not quite an uncle, and not like a godfather since Ian was  _ angry  _ at that, but in a weird standoff way. But he lives in Australia, and we both know Ian wouldn’t go anywhere near someone he hated, but I’ve been to all the cities so only the Outback is left.”

“But you said he  _ isn’t  _ an uncle-.”

“Yeah okay so, shite…” Alex trailed off with a grimace, running one hand through his hair, “okay so, like. I have a family member I think? Who is the sort of...weird spirit path type? Or those mountain men? But the European version?”

Tom squeezed Alex’s shoulders a tad tighter, “you’re so bad with descriptions.”

“Oh shut up,” Alex huffed, rubbing his forehead, “okay so...you know that one family member who runs off and...just...decides to build a boat in the Amazon Rainforest, and then like, paddles alone down the entire river?”

“Oh, that makes more sense,” Tom agreed with realization dawning, “the same person who goes to school for like, 8 bloody philosophy degrees because they  _ like  _ learning?”

“You know the kind,” Alex slumped in relief, “but mine is like, the world traveller kind.”

“Gotcha, the existential crisis cousin,” Tom confirmed knowingly, “but an uncle. On your mum’s side? I’ve got one of those, my mum’s sister-in-law is like that I think.”

Alex stepped to the side as Tom released him, both making their way towards the football field again. The conversation had taken a wild turn, but not one completely unexpected.

“So, I’ve got that one,” Alex said, waving one hand awkwardly, “and apparently  _ he  _ has a bigger grudge match with my not-godfather out in the Outback, so to piss off that bloke more, I call the other one Outback-Uncle.”

“I would die for Outback-Uncle,” Tom laughed with a massive smile, “so, you haven’t met him?:”

“Nope, he just sends gifts every holiday,” Alex said, shrugging his shoulder. “I think he also sends some money to Ian. Maybe he feels guilty that he can’t visit? Too busy chasing lions in Africa or wrangling swans with his hands.”

“Your family is insane,” Tom snorted, “so he sends stuff, yeah? I have one like that too. What did you get this year?”

* * *

Alex has a nice bag for school, a perfectly decent pack with three major compartments and two straps, and a section on the front for pencils that he never really used. It was torn and scraped up on the bottom synthetic material, not quite canvas but obviously plastic or vinyl. It sat on his back or on his bike nice enough and didn’t look fancy enough to bother stealing.

When he’s travelling, he never takes his bag. The weight of his computer and spare shoes and occasional textbooks would chew into his shoulders until they felt raw and tender. Ian travelled with an indistinct black duffle, elaborate and durable and more expensive than any designer sports brand. They had a small hard case that they would send to the belly of the plane if they needed to carry custom scuba equipment or metal climbing gear.

One of Alex’s prized possessions was his travelling bag- a fancy black one that looked posh like government officials or university blokes studying law. It came in the mail when Alex hadn’t gotten his bike yet, years before his first computer. 

When Tom saw it, he whistled and spent an obscene amount of time running his hands over the leather sides and brass buttons on the front. He touched it reverently, squinting at the dark colour with evaluating eyes.

“Mate, this is some bloody posh shite,” Tom said, looking both delighted at Alex’s discomfort with the attention and still fascinated with the bag. “This is like, really fancy. Is that Spanish?”

“Italian,” Alex corrected uncomfortably, “I’ve always had it! Ian said it’ll last me forever, and it’s made really well so I’ve never seen a need to use anything else.”

“Mate, this would cost a fortune,” Tom told him happily, “you’re supposed to like, rub butter or something on it. I think? Wait, why is it echoing when I thump it?”

“It has a frame to it I think,” Alex said, opening the inner flap to show the faint ribwork and metallic locks on the interior, “it’s too light for metal and never got hot, so it may be some sort of fibreglass?”

“Fibreglass in a leather case? Mate, that’s bloody  _ kevlar,” _

“Bullshit,” Alex argued, “I know kevlar and that’s not this.”

Tom threw both hands in the air, then hastily returned to petting the soft interior of the case, finding the slash where a pair of scissors did damage years ago. “Okay, fine. But this is super cool, you have a sugar daddy?”

“Outback-Uncle sent it like...six years ago?”

Tom pulled the messenger bag to his chest, clutching it preciously, “I  _ love  _ your Uncle.”

* * *

Belgian Chocolates came one Christmas, decorated in dark brown velvet and a wooden box. Ian cracked open the shipping crate with the back of a hammer, pulling out bits of scrap cloth that padded the wooden box from scuffing in transit.

It wasn’t larger than a football, and despite the square size of the box, the insides were carefully segmented into careful compartments with individually packaged and wrapped chocolates. Some were perfect spheres, dotted in nuts and sugar. Some wrapped in carefully wound white chocolate designs like growing ivy.

“You won’t like some of these,” Ian pointed out, looking over the treats scrutinizingly. Normally, Ian despised buying food from foreign places- tending to either supply Jack with ingredients or buy local. “Avoid the pyramids.”

Alex thought the pyramid chocolates looked absolutely wonderful for the reason that he shouldn’t have them. He took one, ignoring Ian’s knowing expression, and plopped it in his mouth.

“Oh bollocks,” he choked, tilting his head upwards as his eyes watered and his sinuses ran, “what- what  _ is  _ this-.”

Ian said something that Alex didn’t know, a different language that rolled off his tongue with a knowing sigh. He plucked another triangle, holding it between his fingers pensively. Glancing at Alex, he said, “they’re filled with Scotch. I had a suspicion which one, and from prior experience you absolutely hate it.”

Alex felt his throat and nose melting as he choked down the delicious chocolate, thoroughly tainted with boggy alcohol. He spluttered, saliva nearly drooping from his mouth, “why- who would  _ send  _ you…”

“Those truffles are for you,” Ian pointed out with one pinky as he tossed the scotch-monstrosity into his mouth, “I believe they’re pistachio.”

“I  _ love  _ pistachio,” Alex said, looking at the box with obvious distrust, “who sent this?”

Ian paused. His face twitched, struggling through rapid series of emotions and thoughts before it concluded on a grave decision that visibly pained him. Choking down his chocolate, he said weary and tired; “your...Outback-Uncle.”

“Oh, cool,” Alex said and grabbed chocolate.

* * *

One holiday, an elaborately wrapped ham arrived on their front porch. The postman seemed equally confused as to what was inside, considering it had been imported and clearly marked  _ animal product: swine  _ yet was stamped a half dozen times,  _ handle with care. _

Unless Outback-Uncle had a very odd interest in mailing pig-skulls from France, Alex had no idea what needed that level of caution.

Ian murmured the import label from inside the heavily packaged box, tracing the handwritten cursive script with one finger. “ _ Jamon Iberico,  _ oh, you’ve truly outdone yourself this time…”

Alex quickly corrected himself; strange imported pig heads from  _ Spain,  _ not France.

They unwrapped the package, ignoring the dozen chemical cold-packs that kept the inside a chilly temperature. Ian unwrapped the butcher paper and wielded a mummified leg still attached to a black cloven hoof.

Alex very dumbly said, “is that a pig leg?”

“A very well cured flank and hock,” Ian corrected, placing the leg on a clean plate with more care than ceramic teacups. “I’ll carve a piece and you’ll see. These pigs are rare and hard to rear. Only one place in Spain raises them and cures the meat. They eat acorns, you’ll notice it.”

Alex was hesitant to even  _ call  _ the meat anything like pork. It tasted foreign, surreal and weird considering there was no spice or preservatives.

“I can’t believe Outback-Uncle sent a pig leg,” Alex muttered, but obviously didn’t argue against it.

* * *

They unwrap the gifts at the dining table together, a tradition now since the presents had become regular and custom.

Ian pulls out an elaborate crystal decanter, shimmering with the vaguest blue sheen on each facet near its neck. It sits heavily on the table, tilted forward ever so slightly as rainbows glitter through its throat.

“Sapphire crystal,” Ian tells him, tracing one hand on the shimmering surface, “but quite well refined. Normally they don’t refract near this well.”

“There are sapphires in it?”

“It’s a synthetic combination,” Ian educates him with the slightest smile, “one of the hardest crystals known to man. They use it on the faces of watches, it’s said to never scratch or shatter.”

Alex peeled open his present, frowning at the pair of tall glasses. He pulled them out, briefly startled by both their stretched appearance and their lightweight.

Ian took one glance, then snorted openly. He looked startled by his own reaction, then slightly sheepish as Alex balked at his reaction.

“Ah, ignore me,” Ian dismissed, struggling not to smile for an unknown reason, “it’s the glass.”

“They’re weird,” Alex agreed, setting them beside the wine decanter.

“They’re flutes, for champaign,” Ian told him. Then, finally failing not to smile at some inside joke, Ian said, “they’re Venetian Glass if I recall right. From Venice, Italy.”

Alex didn’t understand the humour, but he did like sipping sparkling grape juice and pretending he was fancy.

* * *

When Ian is preparing for a skiing trip in the Alps, the next package arrives.

Alex hadn’t finished packing yet, and in truth, he was almost expecting something. The pair of sweaters wasn’t what he originally thought- maybe something along the lines of handmade snow boots or imported coffee. 

“Pack this,” Ian tells him, absentmindedly with a little caution as he drifts away. Ian had been stressed lately, and it manifested in his distant demeanour. Alex knew something had happened at work, or maybe something private to his Uncle bothered him personally.

The sweater was itchy, rough and coarse on the soft skin between Alex’s fingers. The colour was nothing special, a flat muted grey with enough variation for Alex to suspect it wasn’t dyed.

It felt hideously itchy, but when he tried it on the level of warmth and pressure made him sit a few minutes on his floor. Alex wasn’t  _ needy  _ for affection, but Ian didn’t go about with physical displays and the sweater felt terribly similar to one of Tom’s hugs.

When Alex pulled it off, he spotted a patch of strange looping, torn with mistakes on the interior where the ridges met the body. He guessed it was homemade. He didn’t think twice about how his Uncle knew his size. 

* * *

Puberty strikes Alex with the subtlety of Tom attempting to prank Ian. 

That said, puberty confidently and effortlessly kicks Alex’s  _ ass  _ and leaves him scowling at his reflection and the spattering of pimples in lieu of bruises. They’re disgusting things, sore and everywhere. The internet and Ian both warned him not to mess with them since grubby teenage fingers would more likely than not infect exposed skin and make a greater mess.

Alex doesn’t know when, but Ian must have carried on the message. His uncle found the situation absolutely delightful, openly smiling as Alex grabbed the honey from the kitchen to dump on the aggressive patches near his jawline. 

“Internet said it helps,” Alex defended himself and his sticky fingers.

“Don’t put toothpaste on your face,” Ian said, almost laughing outright as Alex stormed away.

Outback-Uncle worked  _ fast _ . Express shipping delivered Alex a private package, packed to the brim with various unknown bottles and tins covered in a foreign alphabet. Alex had been able to read the prior presents, but this was beyond him.

Alex wasted one afternoon on an internet translator, struggling to describe each character with the English alphabet before he found a website with a  _ draw here  _ function. Then, it was a battle between managing a laptop mousepad to write delicate lines and figures.

“He...sent me...a  _ face mask?”  _ Alex whispered to himself, pointedly ignoring the slight voice crack. “And  _ lotion?” _

Outback-Uncle was either a very considerate relative, or more malicious than Ian when it came to teasing Alex. That didn’t mean Alex completely ignored the impressive collection of lotions, moisturizers, face cleansers, and occasional mask. Ian walked in once while Alex resembled a pancake, and left without another word.

When the cologne came, as well as perfume, Ian slid it over to Alex with a firm expression.

“Alex...your metabolic rate has increased, and that means-.”

“I stink,” Alex concluded, slumping in his chair, “I am...smelly. Is that what you’re telling me? That I am a  _ stinky  _ little-.”

“Are you upset with your gifts?” Ian asked him, failing to comprehend how on earth Alex could be offended by such nice things.

“He sent me  _ perfume!”  _ Alex wailed, voice warbling a pitch too shrill. He sounded like a smoke alarm. “Why?  _ Why?” _

“It’s a good idea,” Ian agreed calmly, “it’s a strategic option. By sending you both, he’s covering bases on the occasion you prefer one or the other.”

“He sent me  _ perfume,”  _ Alex repeated dumbly, “I get that he’s being nice, but perfume tends to be for the other gender.”

“He’s covering both bases,” Ian repeated.

“Oh my god,” Alex said, “no, no we are not having this conversation. I am not- I-.”

“You have taken to your prior gift quite fondly,” his Uncle said. Years of experience taught Alex that right now, Ian was being an absolute asshole. Ian said, “Should I have asked sooner? Alex, what are your preferred-.”

“You are the actual worst,” Alex told him, and pointedly grabbed both the cologne and perfume and stormed out.

* * *

Four days later, the Rider household suffered a terrible chemical bomb in the form of Alex discovering AXE body spray. Ian contemplated calling in a chemical team to find and eradicate the source, or remove the hazardous waste material from the site.

Alex was somehow oblivious to his personal contamination, drifting about and spreading the noxious fumes with literally no care. Jack demanded a week of holiday, vacating the premise with an imminent doctor visit to go over potential allergy-induced asthma.

“Alex, please,” Ian said, nearly gagging on the chemical smell, “you’re...this needs to stop?”

“What was that?” Alex asked him brightly, “I can’t hear you over the sound of this aerosol can-.”

“Alex  _ no,” _

“Spray more? What an  _ AXE-llent  _ idea!”

Once two cans are pointedly emptied into an air intake register due to Alex’s teenage rebellion, Ian is forced to grab his nephew and run. They escape the attempted fumigation, mutually struggling for fresh air along the River Thames and blissfully Axe-free space.

The next package, likely due to either omnipresent awareness or Ian’s phone-bitching (although Alex had never once caught him) was an industrial pack of Grecian marble candles. Nine of them, with organic wax and thin white rock that glowed orange like sunlight the longer they burned. The smell felt fresh but impossible to identify.

* * *

When Alex gets mature, he logically believes the next step into adulthood is to drink tea for real. Ian with one eyebrow raised, provides classic British tea, with a small box of forgotten Irish blend he stashed in a cupboard months ago.

In the mail, Outback-Uncle sends imported bamboo rods. Dried, the interior compartments housed fragrant flowers and herbs. There were no bags, only raw leaves and petals from Indian and southern China. 

When Alex mentions wanting to try coffee, the specialty coffee beans come in handknit bags from alpaca fur, native to Peru and the Andes. 

* * *

Ian dies; Alex opens a package addressed to him at the dining table.

The house is quiet, empty of smiles or explanations in different languages. There’s a clock ticking gently somewhere else.

He picks up the canvas cover, tracing the touristy manufactured shite. It’s the sort of quality you find at the gift shops outside Big Ben, or outside Buckingham. 

For a moment, Alex is  _ furious.  _ He is filled with such raw fury, his hands curl around the corners and threaten to break the flimsy plastic core. 

It has  _ I <3 England!  _ On the cover. Alex tears the cheap album open with enough force to tear paper and slams it onto the table where Ian used to sit.

There are only four slots for actual pictures, made with poor quality and sold overpriced. There are little British flags making a border between the pictures.

Alex never had any baby pictures, neither did Ian. The picture on the top left is horribly wrinkled, almost torn on one corner which had been exposed to the elements and open air. There is a crease down the middle, splitting the edges of a baby blanket Alex doesn’t remember having. It looks soft, almost furry with how old and travelled it is.

Then Alex sees Ian (Alex recognizes the freckle by his eyebrow) and a man Alex never met but knows from his reflection. They’re both young and stupid and have a breathless grin Alex gets when high on adrenaline. Alex never saw Ian with that expression in his life, and Alex wonders if it left the day his father died.

There’s a woman on the other side with Alex’s eyes, and there’s his father with Alex’s smile. 

Alex doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear glosses over the flimsy page protector and distorts Ian’s frozen laugh- his arms outstretched and silent excitement captured with ink. A toddler Alex with an absolutely horrible haircut looks terribly off-balance, very clearly struggling through the first moments of walking.

Alex closes the book, and his house is still empty.

* * *

It’s raining when he finds the package on his back porch, wrapped in cheap yellow shipping paper and bubble wrap.

The sky is overcast and dark, Alex turned on the porch lights for Jack when she left to the grocer. It might start thundering or lightning but could stay smoggy and gloomy for hours.

Alex hadn’t gotten a package in a long while. He wondered if his Outback-Uncle had died also, had been shot in the back or gunned down like Ian was on that  _ goddamn mission-. _

Alex clutches the table and refuses to look where Ian always sat. He peels open the paper and tries valiantly to not remember the raw terror of meeting Yassen Gregorovich and wondering if it was  _ his  _ turn to die.

He peels off the bubble wrap and hastily applied tape- nothing as elaborate as fine china or carefully packaged like cured ham. 

Alex holds the gun in his hand, delivered to him personally by a man he never met and who likely would be dead if MI6 had anything to do with it.

“Thanks,” Alex says, knowing his unknown Uncle would never hear it. Ian wouldn’t have approved of it, he didn’t like Alex messing around with knives or anything potentially dangerous. Ian was a hypocrite and Alex loved him and missed him so much it hurt.

There were bullets included in the shoddily wrapped gift, and Alex loaded them with a shaking hand.

“I know just who to use it on,” Alex promised and felt his lip wobble.

* * *

Yassen Gregorovich dies on a plane, and not under Alex’s hidden gun.

Alex doesn’t get packages after that.


End file.
